Page 8 of Captured By the Bratva

Go back to my old life or embark on a new one?

The desperation in his words tugs at the part of me that remembers the comfort of having someone else take charge, the relief of not having to fight every single day. But I can’t shake the suffocating feeling, like invisible hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing until I can barely breathe.

I remember what it felt like, living under his thumb, watching every move, feeling my own thoughts and dreams shrink to fit into the tiny corner of life he allowed me.

I take a deep breath, forcing the memories to the back of my mind, but I can still feel the doubt lingering, gnawing at me. My thumb hovers over the reply button, a small, desperate part of me wanting to reach back, to feel the comfort of familiarity. It would be so easy.

But then I look up and see Amanda is back, her expression calm, waiting for my response. She sits down again. “Sorry,” I say, turning my phone off, tucking it back into my bag.

“I understand if this feels like a big step,” she says, her voice measured and reassuring. “But if it helps your decision, I’ve arranged for a car to pick you up immediately. You can start right now.”

The offer feels both daunting and liberating, the idea of beginning now, right this moment, as though the door to my old life has just slammed shut behind me.

There’s no time for second-guessing, no chance to slip back into familiar patterns or to let Jimmy’s words sink their clawsback into me. If I take this job now, it’s a commitment to move forward, to leave the past where it belongs.

I swallow, feeling a strange blend of excitement and fear. I’ve never made a choice like this for myself. Every decision until now had been shaped by someone else’s influence, someone else’s control. But now, for the first time, I’m standing on my own, ready to make a choice for me.

“Yes,” I say, the word feeling oddly foreign on my tongue, like it belongs to a different version of myself. “I’ll take the job.”

I sign the contract at the bottom.

A small smile touches Amanda’s lips as she nods. “Excellent. I think you’ll find it suits you well. Peter, your driver, is out front whenever you’re ready. Just look for the black limo.”

5

CATHY

Isit quietly in the back seat of the limousine, clutching my bag so hard my fingers start to ache.

The buildings of Manhattan give way to stretches of woods and even some open sky, and with each mile, my nerves creep higher.

I check my bank balance again, making sure I’m not dreaming. Nope, there it is. Twenty-five thousand dollars. To become a cleaner. I feel like taking a screenshot and sending it to Jimmy.

The driver is speaking in Russian, muttering into his headset in low, clipped tones. He hasn’t said a single word to me, and I can’t tell if he’d even understand if I tried to ask him anything. He’s been talking on that headset for the entire drive.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window—my face pale and uncertain, eyes slightly wide, like I’m on the edge of something dangerous.

The road stretches on, curving through thick patches of trees that seem to close in around us, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

The drive seems to last forever. As the sun starts to lower in the sky, the car slows, turning onto a gravel road that appears out of nowhere, winding through dense trees and towering hedges.

The house comes into view—a massive, gothic structure with dark spires and arched windows, staring down at me like watchful eyes.

The car comes to a stop, and my driver speaks into his headset one last time before opening his door and stepping out. He doesn’t even look at me as he rounds the car, gesturing for me to follow.

I take a deep breath, gathering my nerves, and step out, feeling the weight of the mansion settle over me, like it’s sizing me up.

I’ve never seen anything like it—its stone walls are dark, almost black, and intricate gargoyles sit perched along the roofline, watching me with empty eyes. If Morticia Addams appeared on the step, I wouldn’t be surprised.

A security guard appears instead, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable. He gives me a quick nod, then starts rattling off instructions in a thick Russian accent.

“In case of problem, alarm go off,” he says. “You hear alarm, follow light to exit.”

His words are straightforward, yet there’s something almost ominous about his tone, like he’s not telling me everything.

I glance over at the driver, who starts arguing with the guard in Russian, both of them so focused on their conversation that I feel as if I’ve disappeared entirely.

I stand there, awkward and alone, trying to ignore the nerves twisting in my stomach. As they gesticulate with their arms, I notice guns in holsters.

---